CROSS MY HEART

The Spill

"Stop fidgeting," Camille muttered beside Selene, sleek in a borrowed dress, scanning the room like she was casing it. "You look like you're about to bolt."

"I am about to bolt."

"You are not. We drove forty minutes for this."

"No, you drove while I white-knuckled the door handle the entire way."

The Ashford Gallery smelled like money, champagne, cold marble, and perfume that cost more than Selene's rent. She adjusted the strap of her portfolio case for the tenth time and reminded herself that she had every right to be standing here.

The submission table sat near the back, manned by a woman in a suit so sharp. Selene's heart hammered as she approached the table, her portfolio clutched to her chest like a shield.

"Name?"

"Selene Calloway."

The woman logged it without looking up, flipped through the portfolio with the emotional range of a filing cabinet, and closed it. "You'll be contacted if selected for private viewing."

"That's it?" Selene asked. "No feedback? Reaction? Anything?"

"That's it." The woman was already gesturing for the next artist in line.

Camille pulled her away before she could say something she'd regret. "See? Not so bad."

"It was deeply anticlimactic, is what it was."

"Champagne?" Camille was already flagging down a tray.

"God, yes."

Selene took a glass with a shaking hand, sipped once for courage, and then she spun around and came directly in contact with someone's chest.

The glass tipped. Champagne arced through the air in a perfect, catastrophic line and landed squarely across the front of a very expensive, very dark suit.

The room went quiet in that specific way rooms go quiet right before something interesting happens.

"You're joking," said the man now wearing half her drink.

Selene looked up into a face she recognized instantly from the magazine, except in person the granite had a pulse, and the pulse looked furious.

Rafael Cross.

"I..." Words failed her. She grabbed a napkin off the tray and tried wiping off the champagne on his suit like it might fix anything. "I am so sorry, I didn't see you. I can pay for the dry cleaning, I can..."

"You can start," he said, voice low and precise, "by watching where you're standing."

Heat crawled up her neck, embarrassment peaking fast into something sharper. "It was an accident."

"Accidents have a habit of finding you tonight, don’t they?"

"Excuse me?"

"You spilled a drink on a stranger at a professional event. That's not exactly a habit of grace."

Camille, beside her, made a small, strangled sound that was half gasp, half delighted horror.

Selene lifted her chin. If he wanted to embarrass her in front of a room full of people, she wasn't going to shrink for him. "You're welcome to send me the cleaning bill, Mr. Cross. I'm sure it's the most interesting thing that's happened to you all night."

Something flickered behind his eyes, not quite amusement, not quite anger. "You know my name."

"Everyone in this room knows your name. It's boldly written on a banner by the door; even a blind person can't miss it."

His jaw tightened, but his voice stayed maddeningly composed. "And yet you still managed to ruin a 10,000-dollar jacket."

"Then maybe don't wear 10,000-dollar jackets to events with open bars and clumsy artists."

A ripple of laughter moved through the small crowd that had gathered. Rafael's eyes narrowed slightly, like he was recalculating something.

Just then, the woman from the submission table appeared at his elbow, a familiar black folder in hand. "Mr. Cross? One of tonight's submissions. Thought you might want to see it before the others."

Selene's stomach dropped as she realized whose portfolio it was.

Rafael took it without looking away from her, opened it, and flipped through the pages in silence. Selene held her breath, hating herself for caring what his face did.

His face did nothing.

He closed the folder. "Not interested."

Two words that were final and sounded flat.

It shouldn't have hurt. She didn't need his approval, but something in her chest cracked anyway, quiet and humiliating.

"Wow," she said, forcing her voice steady. "Careful, Mr. Cross. Almost sounded like you looked at it for a whole second there."

"I know what I'm looking at."

"Funny. I don't think you do." She stepped closer, close enough that only he could hear it. "You didn't even look at the third piece. The one under the sketch of the harbor. That's the one that mattered."

"No one has the right to tell me what matters and what doesn't," he replied.

"All I can see right here is a terrible taste for art because someone who truly understands art will not fail to see what is obviously in that portfolio."

For just a moment, barely a flicker, his composure cracked. Then it was gone, and his voice was ice again. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Miss…"

"Calloway," she said coldly. "Selene Calloway. You'll want to remember it for the apology."

Camille grabbed her arm before she could say anything else career-ending, physically steering her toward the exit. "Okay, we're leaving. Right now, while you still have a reputation left to salvage."

Outside, the cold air hit like a slap. Selene wrapped her arms around herself, adrenaline draining out and leaving something shakier behind.

"That," Camille said, staring at her, "was insane. What was that?"

"That was me watching my one shot at a real commission evaporate in real time." Selene let out a humorless laugh. "Should've kept my mouth shut."

"Should've, but didn't, because you're you." Camille bumped her shoulder. "Come on, let's go. Wine's waiting at my place."

They'd made it half a block when a black car eased silently to the curb behind them. The back window slid down.

"Miss Calloway."

Selene turned. Rafael Cross sat in the shadowed interior, her portfolio resting on the seat beside him, the one he'd supposedly rejected.

"You'll be hearing from me," he said.

The window rose and the car pulled away.

Camille stared for a few seconds, then finally said to Selene, "What just happened?"